


Overthrown

by orphan_account



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe-Graduate, And his pesky supervisor Maxwell, Angst, Hate Sex, Multi, Not Beta Read, Not wholesome at all, PhD student!Wilson, Restraints, Smut, Sorry I'm poor at English, Woodie and Lucy were just passersby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:26:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29259687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: This story told us: 1) keep up your academic integrity and 2), never DUI.Finally did this. I know my English sucks and it was like, impossible for me to find a beta reader. Imagine when you can only find less than 20 fanfics written in your language for past 8 years and almost nobody writes stuff now and you cannot get responses. And the only constant reader who used to kindly debug your translation afk for good because of the whole Tencent thing. I feel like an island, dude. Hence I did this though my only English writing experience was a TOEFL composition. Maybe it is just more than the language problem. Maybe just my WRITING sucks. Don’t care already.
Relationships: Lucy/Woodie (Don't Starve), Maxwell/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 13





	Overthrown

**Author's Note:**

> It was from the research notes that I found Wilson was once in graduate. Could not help thinking what would his story be like in a modern background, who lured him and signed some kind of dreadful contract with him. And what would his “checkmate” be like, heh. Wrote this around last Christmas.  
> Please just tell me about my grammatical mistakes. Must have made a lot. And please just tell me if there was ooc resulted from my poor choice of words in dialogues. Aaaaand please tell me if I forgot to tag anything.

The sound of clean white medical adhesive tape being torn with a zip brought him a pleasure of killing. Electronic screen of the timer as a complimentary gift from reagent company with clock function on the bedside stand showed 05:07 AM. Wilson stuck one end of the bandage at the edge of his writing desk, hunched forward to pick up a baseball bat shone with dull metallic luster lay silently in an unwrapped bubble pack parcel. He weighed it in his hands.

It had been a long time since he had this sense of security that there was something in his grip. No matter his miserable life he wished only if he could wrap it and cart it in a dump, his future that he meticulously struggled to insecure all the way yet still betrayed him, or his freedom that did not belong to him from the beginning.

In white, bright light from the lamp, he gripped the bat with single hand and adhered the bandage firmly to its front end. With more zips poured like cheerful cries, the bat was tightly and beautifully winded. How could he not be good at this? _You’d better consider changing your profession if you cannot even handle parafilms_ —he still remembered this snarky comment made by Maxwell abruptly stood behind him when he was fighting an over-solidly wrapped culture flask opening caused by last student in cell culture room, in his first year of PhD. At that time, he just smiled awkwardly, even would not bother defending himself. After all, he had already known too well and begun to accept the truth: all he had to do was to satisfy that arrogant bastard with every effort and wait for him to forget about those whimsical demands on his own—survive this fixed-term sentence of five years at most. Grab that goddam diploma. Find himself a decent job by the name of this key laboratory, Maxwell’s reputation in industry and academia and his SCI papers at the expense of his own sweat and blood. Then go separate ways and bid farewell for good.

He laughed at his naivety four years ago. Five years at most? Stars, he even fancied the possibility of graduation with three years, that Maxwell was too generous to milk his last drop of soul. If this was a piece of contract signed with a demon who cracks bones and lap at the marrow, he had already offered everything, yet sank in hell even before witnessing the scene could make him cry “Stay a while, you are so beautiful!” He was by no means as lucky as Faust and there was no God to save him from the claws of Mephistopheles. He could only resort to revenge. This is the only way to balance just a little bit for all his sacrifices.

He continued entwining bandage, watched as its outer diameter shrank and its weight gradually transferred to the bat.

If possible, he would love to thoroughly punch the scientist who argued “twenty-first century is the century of Life Sciences”, or take a step back, that hypocrite who quoted this on compulsory courses to coax those innocent undergraduates. Ah, this was exactly what he was going to do, wasn’t he? At last.

At late December, during which the sun had already sunk to south of the Tropic of Capricorn, it was not the moment for dawn climbing up windowpane yet. For Wilson, giant windows through which street view can be overlooked and its wide inner windowsill were the only virtues of this shabby apartment.

Five years ago, when rental agent and landlord brought him to this desolated residential unit, Wilson almost thought he was bound to get killed in this strange block only to be robbed of his mingy cash. However, what made him too hard to decline was, first, the astonishingly low rent—low to an extent that no matter what had or would happen in that room was not surprising, and second, that (obviously cleaned spotless by the landlord before their arrival) giant window which took up almost half of a wall with breathtaking views. It was late autumn, afternoon, wide golden leaves of sycamores rustled against the clear sky. Over the horizon, edges of the clouds were shaped by autumn wind into smooth curves. And running kids across the street on paved roads. All framed in that crystal-clear window. Therefore, he took no hesitant about paying the rent and deposit on the spot and all three of them thought to themselves, it was a perfect bargain.

He never thought that from the day he moved in, he nearly had no chances to see scenes other than dawn and night times. Anyway, the window and its windowsill were still the only things in this house (he included) that he still managed his best to keep clean.

Wilson patted his palm with the winded bat. Blunt enough, and he was going to have a good control of strength. Definitely not resulted from humanitarian concerns or fear of prosecution. He was just least likely to give a quick, forthright end for that old fox. He braced the bat diagonally in his laptop backpack. Perfectly unsuspicious viewed from the outside. He nodded to himself in satisfaction.

Then he walked to bathroom. With the dim light that almost had a hue of green, through a mirror tainted with water marks and white foams, was a deadpan face. There was something apparently conflicted in that mirror image, a young face, yet misanthropy and weariness in those eyes. His dark circles, although somehow inherent, were also owed to long-term sleep deprivation and tension.

There would be a formal occasion today and his electric razor was finally put into use after long obsoleteness. In his undergraduate days, he still shaved every morning, possibly with some simple concept that keeping a neat appearance was a respect for others and he would by no means admit, to impress someone. He abandoned this only after two weeks upon doing PhD. He even hoped his already magnificent beard to be lusher, totally cover his more and more frequently pouted lips and countless sighs, then he could have this face mask dealing with others and this little line of defense meant a lot while confronting Maxwell.

He fumbled in the cupboard which was nearly too rusty to open for a cheap, plastic comb, tried to cope with his incompliant hair, but soon gave up. Even though, he understood deep in his heart that this was not a sufficient reason for not combing his hair every day before going out.

Back to the bedroom, he stripped his light blue coral fleece pajama (choosing this easily stained color was definitely a mistake), felt a chill, pulled out his suits from a cracked narrow closet. They hung there for a year, nicely ironed after last sending to dry cleaners. These suits were bought with a portion of his scholarship for the first year and he never wore them on any occasions other than every year end party of his research group. He once thought the next time he would wear them should be at his commencement. But no next time, it seemed. Luckily, his white shirt neither yellowed nor mildewed and camphor did its duty to keep them from moth-eaten. He buttoned his shirt from bottom to top, pulled on his trousers—seemed that he lost some weight since last year—tightened the belt and put on his suit jacket. Wilson naturally reached his hand into pocket, even did not realize his reason for doing this. Then he touched two cold little metallic things. He sighed and caressed their surfaces, held them in his palm.

This pair of bright silver cufflinks reminded Wilson of his first met with Maxwell nine years ago. Surely he was charming. Neat suits tailored to fit well, lectured with eloquence at the podium in the front of the classroom, his voice like velvet still pleasant even slightly distorted by the loudspeaker, raised a laugh with occasional quips. Introduction of a course usually best presents the character of a teacher and Wilson was easily fascinated. He listened to this professor—still associate professor then—addressed the subject to the crowd with great familiarity. He could well remember each word of Maxwell’s first lecture. As well as the pattern of his cufflinks that day.

He purchased them with his “wages” for the first month of his PhD, somehow fulfilled his little wish, then left them slumber deep in the dark closet. Although just similar in pattern, what he had chosen was not a cheapie. Subsidies offered by Maxwell were almost generous, however, Wilson had not felt slightest gratitude toward this. He deserved every digit. Let alone he constantly paid for lab expenditures by himself in advance: if all follow-up experiments must be carried out only after receiving irregular reimbursement from that guy, how about whole lab members just go to write literature reviews? Every time Wilson received fund transfer text from bank, he could not help thinking of that condescending smirk of Maxwell and gritting his teeth.

Enough for dazing. Wilson slightly rolled up his jacket sleeves and fastened them on his shirt cuffs. He grabbed a long thick coat, swished it around his shoulders and hastily went outside.

Wilson felt himself totally incompatible with this Christmas-plus-new-year-were-around-the-corner atmosphere on the street. Sweet scent came from the bakery on a winter morning, fragrance escaped from the florist’s, gradually accumulating powder snow and smiles on the faces of rushed passersby, all these seemed to have nothing to do with him. He was just like an incongruous ghost lingering along the street. And who was to blame?

Darn it.

Wilson was craving for someone to disclose some scandals of that rascal, whether about his private life or infraction of law or something like he was “unintentionally” studying precursor chemicals. Better get him sentenced in prison for several years.

But why must it be academic integrity? Why must it be exactly before Wilson’s thesis defense after two years of postpone graduation?

Nobody ignores reasonable suspicions at PubPeer on papers published by the leader of a specific area. Even though published two decades ago back in his obscure student time on journals with little impact factor, even though it was an obvious retaliation made by one of his rivals. Not one or two papers. A dozen. Wilson’s bitter supervisor had a special persistence for authenticity, no matter how rotten were his personal moral values. No matter how the deadline looms, even stayed up together for several nights (yes, there were some cold days in Hell), Maxwell never told nor hinted him to take a shortcut. He could not fancy his supervisor submitted these manuscripts under what kind of threat with what feeling.

He would have been delighted upon hearing this if it happened a year later. But not now.

Not only would the research field of Maxwell twenty years ago be questioned—that was justified, of course—and everything constructed afterwards. Together with _his_ nearly two thousand days of early mornings and late nights.

They were all in the same boat. For five years like Hell, the bottom line kept him from quitting was sticking to authenticity and good faith when it came to science. He had a clear conscience with his every table, every graph and every piece of supplementary material, yet now had to face countless queries because of his discredited supervisor.

Researchers are a bunch of skeptical guys and integrity means a lot in this field.

In a word, his research career, came to an end.

Before he knew it, his footsteps had brought him to the front gate of research building. Some shiny magnificent tower of Babel constructed on a foundation of salt and sand, awaiting a touch to be toppled. Time will pass quickly today, he thought with a smile. Badge slid across the access control, making a brisk beep.

Four in the afternoon, he hung his white coat on the hook behind the door, put on his coat, carried his backpack and headed to the registered hotel in advance to make sure that all arrangements were done. Year-end party before the Christmas holiday was one of the traditions of the lab, and this year was no exception. Although everyone knew it well-their boss will be gone after the new year.

Clock stroke seven. The scale was no less than any former years. Like everything was normal.

Those simpering peers, like vultures, waited for him to fall. The students, who were about to lose his shelter, especially those master students in their graduation grade, were all in a quandary, not knowing where shall they go from here. Anyway, the Christmas holiday was just around the corner. Like if everyone kept quiet about the elephant in the room, it would not be there at all, or would be decorated as a Christmas tree.

When his supervisor ordered a second Ramos Gin Fizz at the bar counter, a flash of gritted expression on the face the bartender almost made Wilson chuckle. It was exactly the expression he wore when facing demands from Maxwell. This guy is just a genius of torturing others, isn't he? The dark-skinned bartender seemed to hope what he was vigorously shaking was Maxwell’s neck instead of the blender.

As the night darkened, boisterous crowd reluctantly scattered in front of the hotel.

The empty underground garage, well-lit like daytime by fluorescent lamps, echoed their footsteps.

He still remembered the uttermost panic in his heart when (an obviously drunk) Maxwell offered to drive him home after his first year-end party. Although he had a driver's license, he still dared not rashly propose to drive by himself. Rather than facing the consequences of causing a little scar on that luxury car, he might as well simply die from an accident. He placed his hand on the seat belt buckle, wondering whether he should pull it down and give his life to the co-pilot's airbag, or just ensure freedom of movement so that he could be ready to escape the car at any time. But unbelievably, Maxwell drove the car steadily to his apartment in his trembling navigation. Even more steady than driving by Wilson himself. For the next three years, he experienced such a surge in adrenaline every Christmas Eve. 

“I’ll send you home, Wilson. What street do you live on? “Maxwell took the key from his pocket, opened the car door and stepped in, looked up at Wilson with his trademark smug smile. It had been four years. Still can’t remember his home address.

_Who writes national science foundation proposals for him every year?_

The scent of lavender air freshener lightly wafted from the car. Wilson took off his backpack and laid it against the tire.

_Who was the stand-in for him tied up with patent assignments?_

“There’s no need.” Said Wilson in an indisputable tone, which was rather rare when facing Maxwell, leaned into the car and grabbed the key from his hand. Detestable weight of lucre. He pulled the professor out from his car and slammed the door shut.

_Who was it for him to deal with inspection groups which always snapped at trivia questions as "the skull and crossbones of hazard symbol is not correctly painted so please purchase new stickers" like hounds?_

"It's really rare for you to treat me with this kind of attitude. Well, carried away by your freedom at hand?" said Maxwell, half annoyed and half amused, lost a moment of balance with alcohol got to his head, put his hand over forehead and leaned against the car.

_Who was actually in charge of instrument maintenance and reagent management of the entire lab while all he had to do was to write his name in the position of the person in charge?_

He did not waste this opportunity, unzipped his backpack and took out the bat.

_Who substitute for his experiment classes every summer, free of charge, dealing with innumerable problems from those troublesome undergraduates, and helped him cover up when the Registrary came to checkup?_

“Not freedom. I’ve got something way better.”

_"He just went out to answer the phone." Wilson lied without blinking his eyes, knowing too well that Maxwell was nestling in his air-conditioned office, cozily reading scientific literature._

A delightful thud came from the underground garage and even that was muffled by falling snowflakes.

On his way of carrying Maxwell home, Wilson began to feel grateful that he only lived on the second floor. At the crossroad, he stopped to take a breath, only to meet the sight of two thickly dressed Canadian international students.

“Merry Christmas?” Woodie gave a resigned smile when he saw Wilson shouldering his tall professor.

“If I were you, I would dump him on the street and let him freeze to death.” The red-haired girl beside him chuckled. Lucy, if he remembered it right. It seemed that Maxwell’s bad reputation even spread to other faculties. Suit him well. This couple with Canadian accent huddled together like two little redbirds, with a thin layer of powder snow on their hair. Too Christmas. Oh, they were even wearing in the SAME red scarf. Only if he had had a relationship in his nine years at university, he probably wouldn’t have fallen to where he was now. But for the first four years, he was too busy chasing shadows and for five years thereafter being tortured half-dead by his false god.

“Merry Christmas!” he tried his best to sound more cheerful, “Enjoy your holidays.”

“Same to you!” they said in unison, bid him goodbye and left hand in hand. Wilson began to feel the air around him too thin to breathe.

Well, at least he carried himself such a Christmas tree smelled like alcohol, mixed with the scent of cigar and cologne. He adjusted Maxwell's posture, almost dragged him home for the remaining half of the way.

Didn't even bother to turn on the light of the living room, Wilson pushed open his bedroom door and threw Maxwell on the bed. Although thought it unnecessary, he still locked the bedroom door and by the way flipped on the switch of bedroom ceiling light. On his way home, whether Maxwell was still alive could be judged by the white plume of breath, but it was hard to say indoors. He placed his hand on his supervisor’s chest and felt his heartbeat. Not dead yet, what a pity. He thought viciously and threw the expensive leather shoes of the older man to a corner of the room. As for whether there would be holes gnawed on them by mice tomorrow morning, not his concern then.

Wilson took off the professor's tie clip (golden poppy, which matched him well) and threw it aside, roughly untied that apparently pricey grey tie. He himself only had the zipper kind of tie. The young man also unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, or he was afraid that Maxwell might be choked to death by those collar stays. After pondering for a while on whether to use the tie to gag him or tie his hands, he firmly wrapped Maxwell's wrist by it with the rigor of a researcher. It did not matter even if he called out. And Wilson dared to say that his dignity would not allow him to do so.

For the first time after shouldering Maxwell home, Wilson watched his face carefully. A very deceptive face indeed. He could give a bright, friendly grin, as if telling you that there were no insurmountable obstacles in the world, as long as you stood by his side, all difficulties will be solved, and the world will extol your name. But that was no different from the ray used for predation of an anglerfish. You will encounter a completely different expression after being attracted near, then fall into deep remorse. Look at those sunken eyes, those dark circles, those wrinkles that made his face more angular like a statue, and- Wilson smiled- that somewhat receding hairline. Like he, instead of Wilson, was the one who busied himself in the lab every day till midnight at least.

Now he did hope to see some expressions on that face that he had never seen before.

Wilson unfastened the other man’s belt, pulled his trousers down to his ankles, then pulled them off and threw them to the bed corner, ignoring the black socks. Black cotton boxer, completely as expected. He grabbed his large bottle of Vaseline hand cream on the bedside stand used to prevent chapped hands.

Throughout the whole process, Maxwell was sound asleep, except for occasionally unsteady breathing rhythms. Wilson did not know whether it resulted from this man was too drunk or he had a really nice blow. More or less unexpectedly, he should get an erection to the man beneath him. He attributed this to the fact that he also drank some alcohol, and he was not much of a drinker. The young man thought of those hands that hold the steering wheel steadily every Christmas Eve. Damn it, this old fox even had higher alcohol dehydrogenase activity than him.

Drying his fingers with a tissue, Wilson dropped his trousers onto his knees. He had taken great care of these suits, hoping that they would survive to his job interview. But it did not matter anymore. He let it wrinkle. He swiped the lock screen of his smartphone, switched the camera to the video mode, and swallowed hard.

“I thought you’d consider using a condom at least.”

Suddenly faint words from Maxwell almost startled him into dropping his phone. But he quickly came to himself, "How little self-awareness you have? Just recollect how you have ordered me about for the past few years. Do you think I have so much free time to get off with someone?" When a mocking look flashed across the older man’s face, he added, "By the way, if I find out I got syphilis or AIDS or what after this, I will kill you before suicide."

“Luckily we could prevent the situation from winding up there.” Said Maxwell unhurriedly though the young man’s length was pressing against his entrance.

Nevertheless, he hissed in pain as the head sank in.

“Wilson-” he gasped.

“Shut up. Don’t call my name. No matter which.” Wilson pushed fully inside with an unrelenting move as if threatening. Nothing good, no matter it was "Wilson" or "Higgsbury". The only difference was that the former was used to cajole the student into drudging for him, while the latter was followed by endless mockery and sarcasm. So that whenever he heard the supervisor call his name, it would raise a physical sensation of disgust in him.

“Doctor, then?” Maxwell was not daunted by this momentum although he had to bite his lower lip to keep calm.

“Thanks to you, not qualified for that yet. Master at best.” Replied Wilson when he realized that Maxwell still had an abundance of mindset to retort, but the burning heat form beneath was overwhelming him. How he wished this old man’s mouth could be as honest as his ass. Yet the quip escaped his lips brought a throb to his heart. Who did he think was to blame for all of this?

He slid his free hand on Maxwell’s neck. Slender and smooth, like the grace he possessed. If he tightened his hand, he could feel the strong and steady pulse of the carotid artery, thought Wilson. The man beneath him stiffened for a moment, then let out a louder groan. Wilson tensed his hand, found in surprise that the hot, wet inner wall around him also strained. He finally stopped appreciating his trophy and gave himself to pleasure, making thrusts.

“So this is your way of revenge? Quite unusual.” The smirk on the older man’s face still did not fade away although his words entangled with moans and gasps.

It was overkill. That was far from his intended outcome. Wilson wanted to see him fluster, wanted to witness Maxwell’s dignity being crushed by him. But he felt he was the one to be scrutinized and laughed at.

He threw his still-recording phone aside, untied Maxwell’s wrists where bruises from wrapping were clear. Wilson dragged him up and shoved him to the window side, pressed Maxwell’s upper body on the wide-newly cleaned by him this Monday-windowsill with his back to him. For a moment, a hint of disquiet fleeted across his supervisor’s face, which did not escape his eyes. Seemed that the window he took pride in do come in handy someday, he thought with a lopsided grin. He rented this room right.

It was already halfway through the night, no sight of a single person on the street. The lights in the room across the street were all off. But as long as someone passed by, they can effortlessly see the incredible scene through this window. He felt feeble struggles from Maxwell, seized his supervisor’s waist and quickened his moves. Wilson gazed at the virtual image in window glass under warm light with a vicious pleasure. His self-esteem was rather comprehensible, wasn’t it? That once slick tongue finally could only make weak noises like begging.

The snowfall had not weakened yet, and the paved road was covered in silver white. Against the light of street lamps, the fluttering snowflakes reflected brilliant shimmer, touched the glass, then melted in warm breaths. On the surface of the clear glass, white mist appeared in increasingly rapid rhythms. The older man who also noticed this tried to bury his head between his arms, but Wilson keenly caught this little movement. He grabbed Maxwell's head from behind and forced him to look at the reflection in the glass.

Feeling involuntary shivers from the other man’s legs, a pang of sadistic ecstasy hit his chest. Wilson heard a long, loud moan when he filled his _endearing_ supervisor with his five-no, nine-years of hatred and bitterness.

Maxwell almost gave up struggling when he was dragged back to the bed by the young researcher. Wilson assaulted his supervisor who could not form responses already once and once again before somnolence finally enveloped him.

Maxwell had a dream of being huddled by numerous beagles.

When he woke up, he first felt that his neck was tickled by something rough, turned his head and unexpectedly met his student's spiky black hair. Then, the memory of last night and the soreness of his limbs and body made him sober reluctantly.

Dull pain from the back of his head was still the second thing. The most terrible things were: 1), his hip sored with no different from cracking. It was unbelievable that Wilson actually slept on him like this for hours; 2), his knees were almost trembling, even before he got out of bed, to a point that was annoying him; 3), cramps were building in his calves because of coldness.

He exerted all his efforts to push his student off his body and rolled him to the other side of the bed, before himself turned over to curl up, massaging his calves that were close to cramp.

After the spasm gradually faded away, Maxwell sat up, feeling this mess was totally a disaster. He pulled out his creased trousers from the end of the bed, raised a corner of the pillow to find his similarly creased tie, fumbled for a long time on the bed before finally digging out his tie clip from a seam of the bed sheet. He climbed to the bedside, only to find his leather shoes were askew at the other side of the room in despair.

The half-naked older man stepped on the icy cold wooden floor with barefoot, almost fell to his knees as soon as he stood up. Like walking on his feet for the first time of his life, he fought the soreness of his lower limbs and walked to the bedroom door to step in his shoes. The window glass was shone bright and white by the snow outside. Fortunately, a layer of geometrically beautiful frost glazed on the glass, which saved him from seeing the street scene again and remind him of the humiliating memory from last night.

Upon unlocking the bedroom doorknob, a tart smell rushed out as if the whole space was drenched in coffee. There was a thick layer of dust on the light green curtains in the living room, which seemed to have not been drawn for a long time. He reached for the switch in darkness. Dim gray light flashed twice, then illuminated the bleak scene of the room. A cloth sofa of indistinguishable color resulted from dust collection was littered with clothes of various seasons. A narrow square table at the center of the room was piled up with empty noodle cups and coffee cans. The side wall of the sink in the kitchen counter connected to the living room was moldy, and filled with dishes that must have been laid for months, conservatively estimated, inside.

The wet sticky feeling between his thighs grew harder to ignore. He decided to borrow the bathroom, but only a glance in the frosted glass sliding door dispelled this idea: there were even a few strands of black hair beside the floor drain.

He thought of Wilson's tidy desk at rest area and laboratory benches. Every time the young man finished his experiment, he always remembered to put the reagents back in place and arrange the apparatus neatly. He even once saw him (a doctoral student!) wearing sterile gloves during lunch break, inserting a few boxes of pipette tips. It seemed that this apartment was just a place to sleep for his student and nothing more.

Maybe he should feel guilty, but he was not hypocritical enough to claim that he would have such feeling that he never possessed. He knew exactly what pressure he had put on his student all the way. Therefore, when he encountered this justified revenge, he could only fall speechless.

Wilson was still bleary-eyed when he came to the living room, surprised to see that the curtains which had not been drawn for nearly half a year were pulled to the sides, and the silver light reflected by the snow dazzled his eyes. A chill winter morning wind poured into his neckline and only then did he notice that the window was also opened. His supervisor, standing by the shoe rack, was holding a bottle of cologne- _his_ (I) cologne- and greeted him calmly. As if Maxwell was not knocked out, then got tied up and raped for several times by him last night, but just stopped by at his home to say a good morning instead.

Darn it, still found by him. Wilson cursed in his heart.

One night two years ago, he gazed blandly at the chromatography column. Making sure that there was enough solvent on the top and the liquid receiving flask was newly changed, he took out his smartphone from right pocket of white coat. By coincidence, some damned payment app popped up a reminder to wish him a happy birthday. Happy my ass, he thought. Maybe people don't think getting older as interesting anymore after they have passed the age of twenty-five.

“Your birthday today?” His supervisor's footsteps were as light as a cat, stood behind him completely out of his perception. Wilson thought the old man had not come back from his business trip yet.

He almost jumped with fright.

“Ugh, I…”

A small, cubical box was placed in his hand.

“Happy birthday.” There was some undisguised sarcasm in his tone. Seemed he also understood well that Wilson had nothing to do with “happy” just then. After that, he left in the same silent way, leaving Wilson there, still befuddled.

He could bet that Maxwell just bought it casually from some luxury store in the airport and it was not intended for him at all. Just sold him a favor. Because he dared to say that old man never bothered to remember anyone's birthday.

He kept it anyway.

With the man in the driver's seat beside him exuding the same smell of cologne as himself, Wilson's mind was a little confused, wondering why he would naturally drove to school with Maxwell on Christmas morning. When he finally collected himself and asked, Maxwell just leisurely explained: "Unfinished resignation procedures. Fortunately, there will be staff of the Personnel on duty today. "

In the still starting car, warm wind from the car heater made him a little drowsy. Melodic voice of the morning news anchor gradually stretched into an endless buzzing in his ears. Just when Wilson thought that Maxwell might have escaped from a back door already, the older man finally appeared in his vision.

"I have something to pick up from the office," he threw a stack of document on the back seat casually, "Do you mind having a walk together?"

“I happen to going to the SPF animal facility later." Said Wilson, stretching himself as he got up from the car.

The snow had slightly melted under sunshine, and the tan slush made an enjoyable crushing sound when stepped on. A layer of ice might form on the road later, thought Wilson. Better be careful on the way back.

The floor belonged to their lab was empty except for them, reminding Wilson of the underground garage from last night. Maxwell was not surprised when he came out of the office and was pushed into the lounge connected to their laboratory. At least not on the lab bench or leaning on the fume hood, he thought to himself. And when his student untied the belt and rested the hands on his shoulders, he just smiled in resignation and took a knee. It made Wilson’s heart miss a skip.

This mouth had hundreds of ways to express “your research is nothing but a heap of trash”, no matter whether his research was really a heap of trash, now only capable of making muffled groans with small sucking noises, cacophonous with the silent air in the room. Even those licks lacked for proficiency made him agitated.

He finally realized what he had been longing for years. Fucking his supervisor thoroughly at his desk of the lounge.

The older man grasped Wilson’s shoulders as if drowning.

As their movements gradually became tacit, Wilson felt the joy of conquering for the first time in so many years. Also aware of, but unwilling to admit it, Maxwell buried his face in his arms, and Wilson felt trembles and inaudible sobs when he forcibly pulled away that weak cover with his hand. There was finally an expression of pain on that face almost subjugated under relentless insult. Those tears welled up at the corner of the older man’s eyes—he always thought him a demon without blood or tears—were aphrodisiac to him.

He forced himself not to think about the meaning of this whole thing, fearing he would freak out when started to question his moves with “meaning”.

He forced himself not to think about the future. Tomorrow the sun will rise as usual. All he had to do was countdown. The next will be New Year’s Day. Then weekend. Then one after another of weekends. No need to contemplate where he would be when midsummer looms.

Maybe he dared not to.

Wilson stared into those blue-gray eyes, almost sank himself in. They once gleamed when telling dreams at the front of the lecture room, like starry nights that always captivated him, now finally within reach: nothing but fool’s gold. Shards of stars scattered in those stormy seas.

He wiped the tear from the outer corner of the eye of his supervisor with fingertips, tasted it in his mouth. A familiar savor of seawater. He buried his semen in that heated body and whispered at Maxwell’s ear.

“Happy holiday… and happy retirement, old prick.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, Warly was the poor guy who shook the blender for 20+ minutes.
> 
> I tried my best to represent the air in the room of Throne into a modern setting. Some sort of revenge in vain, some sense of powerlessness from both of them. In this fic they were a little silent since both stricken by sorta aftermath of the misfortune according to the context, yet I’d love to write something about they squabble when they have sex. I actually wrote one. But the quips were too hard to translate. I gave up, for now at least.
> 
> Besides, it is very kind of you to leave comments but I suffer from a quite unstable VPN so may could not reply in time.


End file.
